


Three of a Kind

by Deannie



Category: Law & Order, Pirates of the Caribbean, Stargate SG-1
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-07-17
Updated: 2003-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:25:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deannie/pseuds/Deannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yes, seriously--an SG-1/L&O/PotC crossover. Too many Jacks. Not enough Jacks... something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three of a Kind

Too much rum. Too little rum... Something. 

Jack sat at the edge of the sea, lost in his thoughts. Trapped. Forever. Barbossa, he could understand. Even that rat, Weasel. (Could a man be both a rat and a weasel at the same time? Jack wasn't sure. And honestly, it didn't matter, as long as he'd had enough rum.) But Bootstrap? 

He sighed into his bottle. It didn't matter, did it? They were all gone. Off somewhere, spending the Aztec gold without him. Oh, what he wouldn't have done with that gold! Wine, food, women to share the night with him and Bootstrap. There was any number of them who wouldn't mind. They wouldn't care that he and Bill were giving each other more attention than they'd ever have given the girls--not if the price was right. 

And then, maybe--for a bit of a break in the routine, you know--he and Bill might wander off on their own, surreptitiously, as it were, for a bit of the old one on one. Yes. Yes, that'd be perfect. As soon as Bill came back for him. 

It had been a ruse. He saw that clearly, as he raised the bottle to his lips one more time. And then another time after that. Bootstrap was a cunning one, wasn't he? He'd gotten Barbossa to believe he was in on it, but he'd be back, with a beautiful grin on his face and a bag full of gold, just for them. 

Let Barbossa have the Pearl. Much as Jack loved it, there were other things to keep him happy, weren't there? Things like Bill's dark, flowing hair and that body that any woman would pay a king's ransom to take to her bed. 

"But they wouldn't, would they, Bill?" Jack called out drunkenly. There was no one to hear him, of course, as he was trapped here all by his lonesome. But he spoke anyway. His voice sounded sort of like the slop Cookie fed them after a week at sea, but he knew what he was saying. And there was nobody to correct him anyway, right? 

"They'd leave you to me, wouldn't they, Bootstrap?" he asked the night. "Affer all, 's what I deserve, now isn't it?" 

"Jack?" 

Jack spun around hard enough to land on his face in the sand. Which sort of blocked his view of the new arrival, but what of it, eh? The sand was still warm from the day's baking heat, so a nap would be... Well, it'd be a really lovely idea. 

"I'm sorry," came the voice again. "I didn't mean to startle you. Are you all right?" 

Up. Look up, Jack. The moon was like a halo around a wide, pleasant face, and Jack almost whimpered in relief. "Bootstrap?" 

"Um, no..." 

Damn. Not Bootstrap. Somebody young and energetic, by the sound of the useless sot. 

"I'm Daniel Jackson." 

Good for you, then. 

"I was wondering if you'd seen anyone else come this way?" 

"No." That was for sure. "No. No, no, no one. No one here but me and thee and the rum." Or was there rum? He shook his empty bottle and looked down drearily at the small puddle of brown liquid on the ground. No. No rum either. "Me and thee, then, yes?" 

"Ah. I see." 

Jack looked up again at the rather forlorn tone in the young man's voice. This was ridiculous, this was. Couldn't see a bloody thing with the moon behind him. Him the new man him, not him Jack him. In front of _him_. Whatever. 

Jack lurched to his knees and fell down again immediately, but at least he was in a better position now. He could see the gentleman clearly. He was a lot to see. 

Brown hair sort of stuck out in spikes a bit; his eyes might have been blue, though the pupils were abnormally large. Like he'd been drinking. Drink? 

"D'you want another drink, then? Daniel?" 

The young man looked perplexed. Which was a bit perplexing, all things considered. 

"Um, no. Thanks." 

No drink, huh? Oh. Right. No rum, no drink. 

"Lost your mate then, 'ave you?" Jack asked, suddenly remembering why the boy was here in the first place. Pretty boy, really. A bit like Bill. Jack sniffled. "Me, too." 

"Um, yes. You haven't seen anyone come this way? Tall, greying hair?" 

Greying hair? Jack had always had a thing for greying hair. "Good looking, was he?" 

The moonlight couldn't hide the boy's blush completely. He looked really... really... delicious like that. "Um, yes, actually." 

Not as cute as Bill. "Never seen him." 

Jack pulled himself to his feet, and he could hear the young man following him as he headed for the stash of rum. Rum was good. And the kid had said he didn't want any, so not only was the rum good, but it was Jack's, too. 

"So this... mate... of yours," he asked, fighting with the cork on another bottle. After a moment, young Daniel jerked it off... yanked it off for him. 

"Thank you, so very much." Where was he? Ah yes. "Your mate... he's gone, is he?" 

"Um..." Daniel looked a little apprehensive. "Actually, we came here a few days ago, and he sort of... disappeared." 

Sounded awfully nervous, did the young man. Like his mate was a bit of his soul. Like Bootstrap... 

"Mates do that, my boy," Jack told him seriously. 

"Not Jack." 

Jack? His name was Jack? Jack found that outrageously funny, really. Imagine, one desert island and two men named Jack? 

It was funny enough to make him fall flat on his face. He wondered, as he gave in to the abyss, whether young Daniel's Jack missed him as much as Jack himself missed Bootstrap... 

* * * 

Jack brought his head up with a jolt. Headache. Pulse-pounding headache. Drank three too many and walked home in a heat wave headache. 

The door behind him slammed loudly, and he groaned as the pain increased. 

"So," said a gravelly voice. "Had a good nap, Colonel?" 

"Until you came in, yeah. Wasn't bad." He looked around the interrogation room for the millionth time. "Not much of a bed, but the chairs are nice." 

The speaker walked around the table in front of Jack and pulled back a chair on the opposite side. The sound of those wooden legs screeching across the floor made Jack's teeth itch. 

"Well naptime's over, buddy. You're going to talk." 

Jack opened his eyes. The guy was older--not ancient or anything, but older. Not the kid who'd been in here earlier, though he seemed just as belligerent. 

"And, you are...?" 

"Briscoe," the man answered shortly. "Green's off powdering his nose, so you're stuck with me." 

"Pity," Jack responded. "I think I liked the kid better." 

"Well, you'll be liking a jail cell if you don't talk soon." 

"I did talk." For hours. "To your partner. I told him I didn't kill anybody." 

"Right. And that corpse we got in the morgue? I suppose he's just a TV prop." 

Jack felt his hands ball into fists. "No. He's real. I just didn't kill him." 

"So who did then?" 

This is the point where I shut up, Jack thought. Seriously, what was he going to say? The guy was killed by a Goa'uld, Detective. You know? Little worms that play house in your head? That'd go over well. 

"I don't know." Not a lie. Daniel wasn't sure which Goa'uld had been infesting the MP. Of course, Daniel wasn't in much shape right now to try to figure it out, either. Which sent another stab of angst through Jack's stomach. 

"You got any Tums?" he asked, knowing the answer. 

"Stomach bothering you, huh?" Briscoe sneered. "Yeah, I hear guilt'll do that to ya." 

"I'm not guilty, Detective," Jack avowed, growing tired of the whole game. "Look! Have you called my superiors in Colorado?" 

"Oh sure, the Lieutenant did that first thing. Seems they're sending someone out here right now to deal with you." 

"Then I'm not saying anything more until they get here." And he wouldn't. Not a blessed word. No matter what shit Briscoe pulled. 

"I know how it is," Briscoe sympathized, pulling his shit immediately--of course. His voice was low, as if he was afraid of the speakers picking him up. "Your friend meets somebody, gets a little serious..." Jack almost smirked. Sounded like this was hitting more of a chord for Briscoe than it was for him. "It's tough. Sometimes you just want to kill them both." 

"Except that I didn't kill Major Davis," Jack returned calmly. Sure, Daniel shacking up with the guy had hurt, but... He'd never do something like that to Daniel. Jack knew only too well how it felt to have your lover ripped from you. 

Briscoe didn't believe him. Big surprise. "Or maybe he was going to tell your superiors? You can get into a lot of trouble with that, being military and all." 

Okay, that was it. He'd been listening to this crap from four different people for hours! Jack stood and leaned over the table, getting right in Briscoe's face. "And how much trouble can you get into over it as a New York cop, huh?" 

"I'm not the problem here, Colonel!" Briscoe sniped back. But Jack could see he'd opened a wound, and he stabbed at it mercilessly. 

"It's not your partner, is it?" he asked, allowing his anger and frustration free rein. "He's a little young for you, huh? ...And your lieutenant seems a little... feminine for you, if you catch my drift--" 

He didn't see the punch coming, but he sure as hell saw the stars... 

* * * 

Jack shook his head to clear it. Bourbon just wasn't the friend it used to be, anymore, and the ride up to Riker's had left him a little queasy. And the fact that it was seven-thirty at night and he was supposed to be at Lennie's at eight didn't make it any better. 

November winds whipped at him in the growing twilight as he walked through the grounds, and he tried to take his mind off the biting cold by going over the facts in this case... 

Bill Turner had been caught red-handed stealing from the new Aztec exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but Lennie and Ed both had a feeling he was covering for someone else. The security cameras had some sort of glitch in them, and all they seemed to show was one man and a sort of skeletal figure beside him. And Jack just knew that, whatever glitch had caused the camera to pick up Turner the way it had, the solid-looking figure was not him. 

Jack's thoughts led him through into the interrogation room and the prisoner's door clanked open, admitting the bedraggled man, who still looked too much like a shipwreck victim, even in his prison garb. 

"All right, Mr. Turner," Jack announced in his best bluffing voice. "You might as well talk." 

"I might, eh?" the crusty man answered, in a voice that wouldn't have been out of place on a Disney pirate ride. "And what is it I'd be talking about, Mr.... McCoy, is it?" 

"You can cut the act, Mr. Turner," Jack barked back. "We have two surveillance cameras that put you and an accomplice at the museum at the time of the theft--and the guard's death." 

Turner looked singularly unimpressed. 

"Need I remind you that you're facing the death penalty? Are you going to let your accomplice get away scot free?" 

Turner laughed in the growing gloom of on-coming night. "You've got me, then. I can see. I suppose you'll just have to hang me, won't you?" 

At that moment, the lights went out, and Jack jerked back in shock, as the moonlight fell on Bill Turner--who was suddenly the skeleton the cameras had shown-- 

* * * 

Dan Siler sat up in bed, sweating. 

Damn dreams. 

With a sigh, he rose and got a glass of water. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Colonel O'Neill had finally been located today--by Dr. Jackson, of course--and the base had stood down from alert. So he could go home. Which he did. 

But two hours of _Law & Order_ and a good beer hadn't calmed him down enough, and he'd decided he had to go to a movie. Of course, _Pirates of the Caribbean_ wasn't the way to bring him down from the elation of O'Neill's return, either... 

That was it. It just got too damn complicated, given his feelings about the base's second in command... He was never watching anything with a character named Jack in it. 

Ever again. 

* * *  
the end


End file.
